


Doctor Mirabilis

by Daegaer



Category: 13th Century CE RPF
Genre: Academia, Automata, Gen, Medieval Writers, Philosophy, Robots, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 10:34:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3974914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Under house arrest and forbidden to teach, Friar Roger makes a friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doctor Mirabilis

**Author's Note:**

> 13th Century historical - Roger Bacon, a philosopher and Franciscan friar, was known after his death by the title "Doctor Mirabilis" (Wonderful teacher). In the late 1270s he was for some years confined to one of his order's houses, and forbidden to either teach or write, due to "novelties" in his published writings. Various legends about his scientific and magical prowess grew over the centuries.  
> Thanks to [](http://puddingcat.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://puddingcat.livejournal.com/)**puddingcat** for beta reading!

In the days when Friar Roger had been - for the sake of his humility and the chastity of his mind - kept from the outside world for some two years, the weight of the loss of learning and of the discourse of learned men grew heavy upon him, and he looked with deep longing upon the days when he had taught in the great universities at Oxford and Paris. Was it for this, he thought, that he had dedicated himself unto God? That he had taken holy orders? At night he dreamt of the wisdom of the ancients that surpasses that of the men of the modern age, and of the wonders they had wrought. When he had, for the seventh time, dreamt that he walked in the halls of the Emperor Theophilus, ruler of Constantinople and all its wonders, he woke with tears in his eyes. _Let me not forget again_ , he thought, holding fast to the sights of halls of bright marble and the wonders arrayed around the emperor's throne. _Let me not forget_ , he prayed, as the golden birds opened their beaks once more in his mind's eye and sang the songs appropriate to their kinds, sweet and true, and the great golden lions that guarded the throne beat their tails back and forth in the manner of angry cats, and roared so the walls shook.

As always, the dream faded leaving Friar Roger with an emptiness about the heart. This time, he thought, he would do something. Was this dream not a sign that he had been wrong to leave his learning behind? _I should not say 'wrong'_ , he thought, stricken. _It is a great good that I follow the teachings of St Francis_. Silencing his mind he went out of his cell, for though he was forbidden the outside world, his brothers in Christ were not, and he knew they would aid him. By the end of the day he had secured promises to find him what he needed, and by the end of the month he was ready to start work. Long into the nights he laboured, all the hours he did not spend in silent prayer or singing in the divine offices. When at last he was finished he could not bear to look upon his own work at first, lest it did not match his expectations. With half-closed eyes he peered at it in the dimness of his cell, and then laughed, for truly everything was vanity. He had fashioned it to resemble no more than a young man such as he had seen in the hundreds in his time in Oxford and Paris, and yet, now that he looked upon it in its finished state it had, he thought, more than a passing likeness to his own face. It was his face seen as dimly as in buckets of water or the distorting reflections of polished metal, but he could not deny its provenance.

Still chuckling, he turned it over and tightened the springs within that should give it the appearance of life, and set it upon the table once more. "Now," he said, "Art thou not in truth that silly fool Brother Roger?"

"No," the head said. "Thou art he."

Roger gaped at it, for all his art had been bent into making the head say _Good morrow_ , and nothing more. "What?" he said. "What sayest thou?"

"Thou art no fool, hast thou not made a marvel?" the head said, and with a grinding of the little wheels within it smiled. "I am no demon, Roger, be not afraid."

"I am not," Roger said, surprised it was true. "Though I own I find thee a little over familiar."

"May not a creature address his creator as _thou_ , as men do _their_ creator?" the head said, and its laughter was as Roger remembered his own joyful mirth, when a student had all unwitting come near an important point. "And thou art no longer _magister_ but _frater_ , and _thou_ to all."

"You do well to remind me to be not proud," Roger said, and the wonder that had grown within him began to wither and die. This _was_ vanity, a waste of time he could have been about his prayers. "I am no creator," he said, and was ashamed of the bitterness in his voice. "A mere artificer at best. No learned man would know my name, after all these years."

"Ah, Roger," the head said. "Do not sorrow - do you not know what they call you in the halls of the university?"

"That fool Bacon, I imagine," Roger said, and reached out to clamp the springs to stop the head from speaking further.

"Wonderful teacher," the head said, and Roger's hand stopped, still above it. "They that were thy students love thee yet, and through them, their students love thee also. Thy name shall be that of a learned man through all the years, for even a man sworn to celibacy may have children of the mind."

Roger took a breath and another, and covered his face, weeping. The head did not speak again until he had composed himself. At last he wiped his eyes and looked upon the thing that he had made.

"Dost thou miss thy students so much?" the head asked.

"Yes," Roger said. "But it is also very good to be here; this is where I belong now." He reached out and passed a hand over the engraved brazen hair that adorned the head. "Thou _art_ too familiar," he said, "but I forgive thee with all my heart."

"There are philosophies that may no longer be taught, the past teaching whereof has ended with thee here," the head said, a roll of its glass eyes indicating the cell within which Roger spent so much of his life. "But if thou wished, they could surely be discussed? It would be no more than speaking with thine own self," it finished, and the brassy tones of its voice were oddly shy.

"I would like that," Roger said. He closed his eyes and saw again the eager faces before him, searching out knowledge as more precious than gold. "I would like that very much." He sat upon the edge of the bed and looked at the head expectantly.

"If thou wouldst indulge me," the head said, and Roger heard again the note of shyness in its voice, "might I listen to thee? Thou art the philosopher, not me."

Roger felt his heart lift a little, regarding his strange and small class, and he lifted his head higher, and began.

 

*

 

All that winter, Roger smiled more than he had in the two years preceding, and those that knew him heard his voice murmuring late into the night, and knew he was at last content in the discipline laid upon him. When he was at last given permission to journey unto the friary in Oxford and from there to continue his studies he left quietly, humble and lowly as a proper friar, and carried nothing with him but those books he was permitted to bring and a sturdy box, well-padded to protect what lay within it. With every step, he gave praise and thanks unto the Lord and His Holy Mother, and also to all the wise who had preceded him, and to whom he at last returned.


End file.
